Dygra
Time stretches outwards, less a line and more like a blood splatter, and for the longest time, only the soft sound of crimson dripping into the obsidian bowl breaks the silence in the wake of Isar's words. But softly, slowly, even that disappears. Not because of any alteration in sound, of course - merely because the blood is no longer there. Sucked down deep into the black gemstone, the pile of gore will dessicate before the Accepted's very eyes, until only bones and dust are left behind.
"A generous offering from a generous soul." Dygra's voice comes from nowhere and everywhere at once; Isar will feel it tickling at his fingers and his lips, will hear it dancing along his scalp and down his throat. "You would become as my children are, dark boy? You would be Ancient?"
"A generous offering from a generous soul." Dygra's voice comes from nowhere and everywhere at once; Isar will feel it tickling at his fingers and his lips, will hear it dancing along his scalp and down his throat. "You would become as my children are, dark boy? You would be Ancient?"
